Tennessee Whiskey
by Vivi Dahlin
Summary: When Olivia told Amanda she could plan their six-month "dateaversary," she didn't expect it to involve quite so many rednecks. And what the hell exactly is a "Cowboy Cha Cha," anyway? As the city girl tries her best to figure it out, she struggles with another type of step—towards healing. One-shot; fluff with a dark side.


**A/N:** Awhile back, it was suggested to me that Rolivia should go line dancing. I agreed. Then I heard Chris Stapleton's song "Tennessee Whiskey" on the radio a week or two ago, and I became obsessed with the idea of Rolivia slow dancing to it. The ideas merged and this fic is the result. It's pretty fluffy, but it gets darker towards the end. **TRIGGER WARNING!** for a flashback to torture/sexual assault & PTSD **TRIGGER WARNING! **Totally finished this before last night's episode, but I love that it kind of dovetails with some of the same themes. Hope you like it too.

* * *

A few short months ago, if someone had told Olivia Benson she would be learning to line dance in a honky-tonk bar, alongside her girlfriend Detective "Do-si-do" Rollins, she would have sent them straight to The Tombs to sober up. But here she was, surrounded by tilted cowboy hats and stamping boots, hopping aimlessly around the floor on two left feet and shouting "sorry!" every time she bumped into someone—which was a lot. Unlike wedding anniversaries, with a clear-cut list of materials and gemstones to choose from, there was no traditional gift for six months of dating, plus a new apartment and a big promotion. That was how she ended up making a fool of herself in front of no less than thirty people, most of whom were too drunk and foolish themselves to notice the tall, uncoordinated brunette flailing near the jukebox. Except when she stepped on them.

Actually, the blonde had started it. Olivia would have gone with something a little more sedate. Dinner and a movie, or perhaps a Broadway show where the only choreography would be confined to the stage. But she'd told Amanda to pick, since the detective was the one who pointed out their dating milestone in the first place, and when she got home to find her swishiest yellow midi dress—the one with butterfly sleeves and a slender leather belt—laid out for her on the bed, she was too intrigued to recant.

The last time she had let anyone choose her clothes for her, she was still losing baby teeth. Now, all permanent teeth present and accounted for, she had readily donned the dress and a smile, along with the denim jacket and slouchy knee-high boots Amanda selected. Bright and youthful, it was not a combination she would have immediately considered for herself, but if her younger, sunny-haired girlfriend thought she could pull it off . . .

She had known she was in for a treat when Amanda strutted up to their car, wearing a slim fit flannel shirt with cuffed sleeves, cowboy boots, and tight, faded jeans. The latter hugged her small hips and accentuated every minute curve of her sassy little backside. Olivia required several deep, calming breaths to project the right air of nonchalance when she leaned against the SUV taillight and asked, "We going to a hootenanny?"

Amanda had tossed over a straw cowboy hat identical to the one perched jauntily on her head, the sides curled in like old parchment, and replied, "Pert'near. Now get that cute tail of yours on up in this here horseless carriage, city girl. Let a Southern girl show you how it's done."

As it turned out, Olivia hadn't been too far off about the hootenanny—or what she imagined such an affair would entail. There were more denim booty shorts than gingham dresses, more bar stools than hay bales, but the general atmosphere was about the same: knee-slappin', yeehaw-shoutin', rip-roarin' fun. And lots of violin music. ("Fiddles, babe. They're called fiddles," Amanda had corrected her.) Never in her life had Olivia heard that many _fiddles_, not even at the New York Philharmonic.

"Sorry," she called over the twangy tune resonating from a collection of speakers mounted to the timber frames that gave the bar its rustic look. She scrunched her shoulders into an apologetic cringe as she took a back-step stomp on a front-step turn, colliding with a brawny chest that rumbled a response she couldn't make out, though two large hands settled at her waist and stood her upright. The urge to throw an elbow at the guy's face passed without incident, thank God; he touched the brim of his black Stetson, flashing a prettyboy smile and a whole lot of muscles when he promenaded around her, all six-foot-five of him.

"Keep moving, pal," Amanda hollered, suddenly springing up out of nowhere at Olivia's side, as if an alarm bell had sounded. _Danger, Amanda Rollins, danger! _"She's with me."

"Amanda. He'll hear you." Olivia didn't really mind. The mental image of her five-foot-seven, slender blonde girlfriend, who presently looked like Ellie Mae Clampett, duking it out with that redwood in bulging flannel—and all in Olivia's honor—was rather entertaining. Hot, even. But ever since the Catskills . . . ever since Orion, she had avoided confrontations with strange men, at least while she was off duty and unarmed.

"Damn straight he will." Amanda continued to glare in the guy's direction, making a V with her fingers and giving him the signal that he was being watched. When he looked up and caught her in the act, he grinned and pretended to shrink away in fear. She tossed her head back and laughed, losing her hat in the process. After snatching it up, restoring it to its rightful position, and leaping aside just in time to escape a stampede of pointed toes and snakeskin, she smacked Olivia on the derrière a bit more energetically than usual and whooped, "Come on, babe! Tush Push!"

It was quite possible Detective Rollins was slightly drunk. The Halligan's bottle pinched at the neck between her middle and ring finger was an obvious clue, though she could knock back several of those without breaking a sweat. But judging by the spots of color blooming on her cheeks and the disheveled state of her clothing—somehow her shirt was buttoned wrong, creating gaps in the fabric between, and one sleeve had come unrolled—she may have been sneaking shots of whiskey while Olivia's back was turned.

At least they were on even ground this way. Olivia felt half intoxicated, out here plodding and staggering about like a zombie, unable to keep up with all the moves. _The _tush_ push? What in God's name_—

"Which one is that?" she cried, her voice juddering as she bounced in a frantic circle, always seconds behind each kick ball change—or whatever the hell they were called. A hideous bluegrass song had just swung into high gear, its manic, plunking beat and the synchronized stomp of a thousand boots making her feel as if she were being chased by a giant. A great big hayseed giant, probably in tattered overalls, with a corncob pipe in its mouth.

"Like this." Amanda executed a series of complicated heel taps, half and quarter turns, ass shimmying (Olivia liked that part), and cha-chas. Then she finished up with a clap and looked expectantly at Olivia. Take it away, boss!

Goddammit. Even tipsy, she was still a good dancer. She hadn't lost time once or run into anyone, though plenty of people were skirting past her impromptu dance lesson, on their way to some unattainable hillbilly oasis in the distance . . . _and CLAP!_

"Care to run that by me again?" Olivia gave a sheepish little shrug, spinning a circle in the air with her fingertip. She could walk straight to the precinct right now and describe half the individuals in this room well enough for a sketch artist to do an accurate rendering of each; she could tell you their build, hair and eye color, and any distinctive marks on their person. But the minute she tried to follow along with their dance moves, all hope was lost.

"Here, I'll show ya. Hold my beer." Amanda thrust the green bottle into Olivia's hand and grabbed her firmly by the hips, steering her away from the high traffic area to a dimmer, more secluded spot near the tables, positioning her there, and cuffing her on the rear again. Girl was all about the ass when she was drinking.

Olivia took a long pull at the beer, shuddering as it made its way down. It was warm and salty—Amanda claimed adding salt cut down on the bitterness and gave the beer more head—but if she was going to make it through the rest of the banjo solo blaring from above, she needed some liquid courage. For a moment, it tasted like something fleshy and vile, something Olivia couldn't (wouldn't?) quite put her finger on, and she almost spat it out. The sensation passed quickly, slithering to the back of her mind with the rest of the memories too ugly and painful to dwell on. She was here with the prettiest woman in the room. She was more in love than she had ever been. And she was going to dance.

Seconds later, she and Amanda were laughing at her complete inability to retain even the simplest steps, no matter how many times or how slowly the detective demonstrated them for her. But Amanda's hands on her hips, directing her movements; the pats on the rear and the fluffing of her skirt hem when she chanced an occasional twirl; the giggling in her ears when she spun out of control, landing in Amanda's arms—it all made the humiliation of being the worst (and probably oldest) line dancer in the place worth it.

"You can outmaneuver bad guys and disassemble firearms in, like, five seconds flat, how are you not getting this?" Amanda asked between cackles.

"I don't know," Olivia gasped, pressing a hand to the stitch in her side. "Put on a ski mask, maybe then I can keep up with you."

Public displays of affection weren't really her style, but no one was paying attention to the doubled-over lesbian couple guffawing in the corner. She accepted every pinch and squeeze Amanda dished out, and the next time she fell into the blonde's arms, it wasn't entirely accidental. They were still kissing when the banjo music gave way to a yodeling male voice professing his love of booze, bars, and women. And another. And another. Country music, it seemed, was rife with hard drinkers and two-timers.

By the end of the fourth or fifth song in a row about morning-after regret, Olivia had her fill and extracted herself from Amanda's handsy grip, to plop down on a stool at the nearest open table. She waved Amanda back out to the dance floor, playfully swatting away the attempts to drag her along. Finally, the detective retreated with a pout, which soon disappeared behind the beer bottle for one last swig. After discarding the empty, she waited on the outskirts of the revelry, darting forward when she found a break in the action, like a rope-skipper in a game of double dutch.

Smiling, Olivia settled in to catch her breath and watch Amanda sashaying her way across the shiplap in perfect harmony with the other dancers. The blonde made it look so effortless and fun—bobbing, twisting, rocking, reeling . . . _and clap!_—Olivia was tempted to join in again. She'd teach that little Southern whippersnapper a thing or two about endurance. Or at least give her another good laugh in the meantime.

But as Olivia shifted in that direction, she was struck by two things at once: first, the harsh, oppressive scent of cigarette smoke which coiled around her, squeezing the air from her lungs like a boa constrictor; and then, from the corner of her eye as she peered back towards the booths lining the wall, a smoldering orange tip that flickered in the darkness. She couldn't see the face behind it, and a surge of terror went through her, so stark and shockingly bright she sat down hard and couldn't get back up again. Her limbs felt too heavy to lift and she remained paralyzed on the stool for half a song, her chest burning, her scalp itching as if it were covered in  
(_vodka_)  
lice.

She had been vaguely aware of the smoking section, an unfortunate component of the bar scene, since arriving arm-in-arm with Amanda an hour or two ago. But she'd been far enough away then, and too caught up in the sights and smells on the dance floor—sawdust, sweat, cologne, but above all, beer—not to mention her frisky and tireless girlfriend, to notice.

Now, and for several moments more, she was conscious of nothing in the room besides that cigarette. She knew how it would feel against her flesh, searing through layers of skin ("I told you not to scream, Olivia. Any more of that, and the next one won't be someplace you can see," he'd said, jamming the gun into her crotch again), getting down to the heart of the matter. She knew the odor it would emit, the charred meat smell, like drippings among the hot coals of a grill. Black, flaky ash that disintegrated with a touch. She knew what his hands would do while he—

_And clap!_

The loud noise brought Olivia back to the present, and she glanced up to see a winded and disorderly crowd filing off the dance floor as a slow, sensual song began to play. Amanda was among them. By the time she reached the table, Olivia had more or less recovered from the flashback—she had so few of them lately, goddamit, why did it have to happen tonight?—and when Amanda scooted a stool over, dropping down next to her, she could almost return the blonde's smile naturally. Almost.

"Feeling okay, darlin'?" Amanda asked, chafing lightly at Olivia's thigh with her palm. She gave it a squeeze near the top, but she was sober enough to leave it at that. _Good girl._ She smoothed out the rumples she'd made in the yellow fabric, making sure Olivia's skirt draped neatly over her knees. "Doubt they serve a very high-class Merlot here, but I can rustle you up a good bourbon or . . . ?"

Tempting, but:

"Better not." Olivia offered another smile, this one a bit less tight-lipped than the first. The surrounding tables had filled with happy, chattering patrons who blocked her view of the smoking section and the white wisps of smoke that undulated from the faceless dark. If she tried hard enough, she could pretend the smell didn't exist, either. (_Liar_, said her brain, pounding out a rhythm like the boot heels that had tromped the floor moments ago.) "Wouldn't want to get a dewey five seconds after making captain. The brass'd toss me out on my keister."

"The brass." Amanda snorted, nudging the brim of her hat up with her fingertip, every bit the swaggering cowpoke. She propped her boot on the foot ring of Olivia's stool and leaned in confidentially. "You _are_ the brass, little darlin'."

Olivia couldn't resist. She moved in, as if going for a kiss, then snatched the hat down over Amanda's eyes while the blonde was puckered up in anticipation. "Not quite, buckaroo. My rank may have changed, but make no mistake, I'm just another cog in the big blue machine known as the—" She patted the underside of the brim until Amanda's face reappeared, the expression unchanged, and this time she ducked beneath the hat to peck at those pretty pink lips:

"N . . . "

_Peck._

"Y . . ."

_Mwah._

"P . . ."

_Smooch._

"D . . ."

_Kiss._

The last one lingered a while longer than the others, and when Olivia finally eased off, she had to chuckle at the self-satisfied grin on the blonde's face—or what was visible of it, underneath that hat.

"I'm a big fan of your cog," Amanda drawled, tilting her head back for a wink.

"You are also drunk." Olivia slid down from her stool, standing at eye level with Amanda and finding herself trapped between the table on one side and the detective's propped up leg on the other. She hooked her finger through one of Amanda's belt loops and tugged. "Which means it's time for your captain to take you home and put you to bed, while your dignity and your job are still intact."

Amanda clapped Olivia on the hips, pulling her closer and encircling her waist with both arms, a knee on either side. "I ain't that drunk," she said, and turned away to belch thunderously against her own shoulder.

"Clearly." Olivia hiked up an eyebrow and pretended to fan aside the aroma of yeast and regurgitated hops. She could smell nothing but the cigarette.

"Sorry."

"Yes, well." Attempting to hide her discomfort and eagerness to leave, Olivia kept each movement light and measured as she unclamped Amanda's hands from her hips, pressed their palms together, and interlocked their fingers. She pulled gently, urging Amanda off the stool and onto her feet, where Olivia had the advantage of height and strength (her date would vehemently debate the latter, although at the moment, she was so flimsy a stiff wind could probably take her down). "Get it all out before you get into my car. I don't want to be smelling that on my drive to work for the next week."

"Aw, come on, baby." Amanda stopped short a few steps from the table, refusing to budge another inch, even when goaded. Okay, maybe it would take a little more than a stiff wind . . . When she did finally move, it was to cozy up against Olivia, rocking seductively. "Don't you wanna slow dance with me? I thought you'd like that part. No fancy footwork, just you 'n' me lettin' the spirit move us."

Olivia worried her bottom lip, glancing from the dance floor, now lit by neon bulbs that bathed the occupants in an unnatural blueberry glow, to the booths in the back, several more cigarette tips glinting there like fireflies in the dark. She _did_ want to slow dance with Amanda, had been anticipating it ever since she'd found out their plans for the evening. But she also wanted to get the hell out of this hick-infested hole in the wall that suddenly felt so claustrophobic she was having difficulty catching her breath. Her struggle must have been noticeable, because Amanda quickly turned serious, casting a look back toward the smoking section, and asked, "Cigarettes bothering you?"

As much as Olivia hated being a kill-joy—especially during an outing that Amanda had arranged and was obviously enjoying—she knew it was best to leave before her jangled nerves gave way to a full-blown panic attack. Reluctantly, she nodded, her cheeks warming at the admission. She never used to need special treatment, never would have dreamed of asking for it.

At twenty-three years old and still a recruit in the academy, she had despised the different fitness requirements between genders on the physical portion of the officer exam. Had they allowed it, she would have done the same amount of reps as the men, run the course in the same time, dragged the same one hundred and sixty pound dummy to safety. She'd pestered her trainer to let her prep for the "real" test, until he eventually snapped and told her to "shut up, take the pussy police exam, and be glad they let girls in at all." There were so many snickers from the male recruits, and open glares from the two other females, Olivia had never mentioned it again. But she practiced the full regimen on her own time and easily could have outpaced most of the men in her graduating class.

And now Oh Be (her nickname among those fellow recruits, supposedly because of her initials, though she'd always suspected a more unfavorable meaning), that once tenacious young woman who didn't let a little thing like raging testosterone stand in her way, was getting bested by some secondhand smoke.

Pussy police, indeed.

Amanda took the cue and practically ran with it, announcing, "Let's go," and leading Olivia by the hand out of the bar and into the parking lot. The minute they stepped into the fresh night air, crisp with hints of a cool autumn just around the corner, Olivia felt the heaviness in her chest dissipate. The thudding in her skull quieted to an obnoxious but tolerable thrum and she no longer had the urge to rip off her cowboy hat and dig viciously at her scalp. It was such a relief, her eyes teared over and she paused to gather a deep breath—and herself with it—head tipped back to gaze at the stars. Scorpius was there, fainter than she had been a month earlier and blurred by Olivia's watery vision, but still guarding the skies from the hunters who prowled at night. In a couple of weeks, she would be gone. Not tonight, though.

Not tonight.

"Hey," Olivia said, when they reached the SUV parked in a halo of yellow light from the street lamp above. A languorous guitar solo filtered out of the open barroom door, as loud outside as it was in, and so summertime dreamy you could almost hear the cicadas in the background, smell the honeysuckle on the breeze. She touched Amanda gently on the shoulder, and when the blonde turned to look, Olivia pulled her into a tight hug. "Thanks. I know you were having a good time. I'm sorry you had to rush out of there because of me."

"I'm not. Now I getcha all to myself." Amanda settled back in the embrace, her arms still looped around Olivia's neck. She clasped her fingers together there, offering a lazy smile to match the lazy twang of the male vocalist who was singing—shock of all shocks—about drinking.

"_Used to spend my nights out in a barroom  
__Liquor was the only love I'd known . . ."_

A bit nasally, a bit redundant, but a pretty song nevertheless. Or maybe it was just the girl in Olivia's arms who made it so.

"_But you rescued me from reachin' for the bottom  
__And brought me back from being too far gone . . . "_

And when that girl began to sway to the music, humming along at first, then joining in on the chorus with a pleasant reedy voice that complimented the singer's deeper tone quite well, a sprinkling of goosebumps trailed along Olivia's skin. "You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey," Amanda sang, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, though her gaze remained fixed on Olivia, tender even in the overbright lighting that shined down upon them. "You're as sweet as strawberry wine . . ."

The sinuous motion beneath Olivia's hands, cradled at Amanda's waist, and the ardency of those blue diamond eyes was hypnotic. Olivia found herself drawn into the gentle back and forth, soothed by it, lulled, like meandering on placid waters in a rowboat. She let the wind take her where it would as Amanda finished the verse:

"You're as warm as a glass of brandy, and honey, I stay stoned on your love all the time . . ."

Gliding her palms up Amanda's back, Olivia curled them over the blonde's shoulders and rested her chin against her fingers. She had seldom gotten this close to the men she slow danced with in the past, for fear of being deemed "clingy" or "suffocating," but with Amanda murmuring the song lyrics in her ear, their bodies moving as one, none of that mattered anymore. She was right where she was supposed to be. For the first time she could remember, she was truly home.

"Ready to scoot on outta here, sweetie pie?" Amanda asked, when the song had ended, their subtle, drifting steps slowed to a standstill. She wiped the tears from Olivia's cheeks without needing to ask why they were there.

"With you, sugar?" Olivia gave a leisurely nod, touching the side of her forefinger to the brim of her cowboy hat. "Reckon I'd go anywhere with a pretty li'l thing like you."

**. . . **

THE END


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